


Fall Treats

by Ralith



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Halloween, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mild Gore, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-31 20:36:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21151838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralith/pseuds/Ralith
Summary: A small collection of Halloween-themed drabbles and short stories.





	1. Chapter 1

**Shattered Glass:**

“I assume you’ve seen those childish cartoons of skeletons playing their bones like musical instruments,” Ratchet paused to lift a scalpel into the light. It was dull and peppered with old blood, but it would still do the job. “How realistic do you think those actually are?”

His little prey began to thrash, wrists flailing in their restraints and head whipping back and forth. Their screams were gagged, but not for much longer. Ratchet wanted to hear every agonized note.

“Hmm, I agree. Let’s make some music, shall we?”

* * *

**Bayverse:**

When Ironhide had suggested they go for a romp in the leaves, ending up face down, ass up with leaves jammed in every joint was not how Ratchet was expecting this night to go.

\---

“Ironhide, where did you get all those pumpkins?” Lennox noted how the gourds were not just spilling over the sides of his truck bed, but had occupied the back seats as well.

“Don’t worry about it. Now, let’s do some target practice!”

“Wasn’t Ratchet growing pumpkins to test mineral levels present in soil?”

“Yes…he was. I suggest we hurry. The others are waiting.”

\---

An infinite database of costume references Ironhide could have modeled his holoavatar from, but no. Sarah had insisted on buying him one. If only so she could play matchmaker.

“It’s last minute, but I know just what to get you. Ratchet will have his eyes on you all night,” she said, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

And it worked marvelously. Not only did Ratchet follow his every movement, but so did every pair of eyes, human and Autobot, at the party.

“I am so, so sorry, Ironhide.” Lennox had shed actual tears at the sight of Sexy Nurse Ironhide walking into the party. Now he just pitied the clearly uncomfortable mech.

“The high heels aren’t even the worst part,” Ironhide growled and tugged the skirt down so it was covering his ass again.

* * *

** MTMTE:**

“I’m pleased to report the culprit responsible for blasting a recording of a civil defense alarm ship-wide following our Halloween movie night has been identified and punishment is being meted out.”

\---

“WHICH ONE OF YOU STUFFED THE MAGNUS ARMOR WITH HAY?”

* * *

** Cyberverse:**

It had been millions of years since Ratchet had tread this path, the ground still scarred and shattered. Even Cybertron’s graveyards and memorials hadn’t been spared from blaster fire.

The medic sat on his knees before a small, domed headstone and set down a cube of supplies he’d brought. The headstone looked worse for wear, a victim of millennia of disrepair, but in comparison to the others around, it was the least damaged. Not to mention the newest, one of the last laid to rest before the war moved off-planet.

“Long-time no see,” Ratchet rasped, trying to push down all the emotion rushing to the surface after so many years. He wiped away a few tears of lubricant and moved to brush fingertips over the fading glyphs. “I’ve missed you, Ironhide.”

He moved to the cube and fished around for some polish and a rag.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Bayverse**

\---

Before Ironhide’s heavy, sluggish footfalls crossed the threshold of the medibay, Ratchet’s medical protocols flared to life. His olfactory sensors were picking up the sickly tang of spilled energon. But from where or from whom he didn’t know. Until the weapons specialist took two steps into the room and collapsed at the medic’s feet.

“Ironhide! What happened?” Ratchet took a knee beside the fallen soldier, hands reaching out but halting over the bleeding wound. Ironhide had his hand pressed to it, an apparent, but failed, attempt to stop the hemorrhaging.

Vocal components ground together with an awful sound, any words the soldier tried to form only coming out as moans. The bleeding was heavy and Ratchet feared Ironhide’s vocal processor had suffered damage.

But he needed to take a closer look to be sure.

Throwing a thick black arm around his shoulders, Ratchet hauled the immense frame off the floor and to a berth, carefully laying his patient down.

“Ironhide, if you can, please tell me how this happened.”

Taking up a cloth, Ratchet gently dabbed at the wound. He glanced to Ironhide’s optics, fearing more damage, but they were shut, perhaps to keep out the trickle of energon that now ran down his cheek ridge.

“Fff-fo…”

“That’s it, Ironhide. You’re doing great.”

“Fooled you.”

Ratchet paused in his ministrations, unsure of what he had heard. But glancing once more he found the soldier had opened his optics and a mischievous grin curled his lip plates.

The energon was mostly cleared away now, but the wound had not stopped bleeding.

There was no wound.

Ironhide raised his arm with a groan of hydraulics. Within his palm was a small packet with an attached tube. The warrior gave it a squeeze and energon oozed through the tube.

“If I am to take Annabelle out for candy this Halloween, I must know all it entails. This is the ‘Trick’ of ‘Trick or Treating’.”

Ironhide’s grin was quick to fall as Ratchet backed away silently, turned, and began slowly toward his instrument drawer. It was barely a warning, but was Ratchet’s way of giving the old mech a head-start.

The drawer opened with a squeak and Ironhide shot off the table for the door. He didn’t so much run as stumble and fall into the corridor, this time earning a very real head wound.


	3. Spirits

**Bayverse**

** _\---_ **

_“They say on Halloween the veil between our world and the deceased thins, allowing spirits to cross over and walk among the living.”_

_Lennox had given his best performance for Annabelle, flourishing his speech with the ghostly wavering of his voice and wiggling fingers, even the cliché flashlight under his chin. And Annabelle was soaking it up, leaning in with wide eyes and mouth slightly agape around chocolate covered fingers._

_Ratchet, though, wasn’t fully convinced._

_“Does it, Will?”_

_“Does what?” Lennox faltered, his act broken._

_“Does the veil between the worlds of the living and dead actually thin?”_

_The soldier’s eyes darted back and forth between his little girl and the towering medic, hoping Ratchet was as good at reading body language as he was at scanning for vitals. His face clearly said, ‘c’mon, I’m just trying to entertain my kid I don’t actually fucking know.’_

_“Of course it does,” he answered for Annabelle’s sake._

Ratchet didn’t believe in ghosts. At least, he hadn’t before coming to Earth. To his species, death was absolute. You joined the Well. You never left it. But there were so many Earth cultures that subscribed to the belief of life after death. Brushes with different cultures on their world travels and with the multinational aggregate that was NEST led the medic to question all that he knew about death. Was it really the end?

Seated in the center of his quarters, Ratchet was surrounded but alone, his mind reeling with doubt and longing.

Did he have everything? Was he ready? Would it work? No! What a fool! He was dead. Long dead. But what made a spark any different than the human soul? Could he…?

Around him in a circle were placed the remaining vestiges of Ironhide. A photo taken at the Lennox home. His favorite screwdriver that had touched every weapon he owned. Tchotchkes that had made the journey from Cybertron and clogged up the soldier’s workbench. And crystals from a distant moon, gifts to Ratchet on their first anniversary.

Paranormal researchers called them trigger objects and used these to call spirits, at least in the TV episodes Ratchet had studied.

“Ironhide, I…” Fuck he felt stupid. Talking to nothing but the walls. “If you’re here, give me a sign.”

They all said that. Might as well try. But what would Ironhide do? Make a knocking sound? Produce footsteps? Slap him across the face and yell at him to ‘move on, I’m dead’?

Nothing for minutes.

“I’m not asking much of you. Just let me know…let me know you’re okay. Can’t exactly patch up your wounds anymore,” Ratchet gave a short, bitter laugh. “I always thought I had more patients. Turns out it was just you all the time.”

There came no knocking or angry pounding on the walls. All was quiet.

“I…I miss you, Ironhide,” Ratchet hunched over, curling into himself. His, no, their quarters had always been full of life. They tinkered at their respective desks and chatted quietly. Sometimes Ironhide would start playing an old song from home and begin singing before sweeping the medic into his arms and walking him to their berth.

Now the room was cold and still, a fine layer of dust settling on the old soldier’s belongings.

“Please,” he murmured.

Whether he ignored them or simply didn’t notice, his sensors began reading a localized temperature drop.

Then the barest of touches on his neck. Ratchet hardly noticed until it came harder, this time feeling like two fingers stroking down the nape of his neck.

Ratchet’s head shot up and the touch receded, but the sensation lingered like a weak charge of electricity.

“Is that…?” The medic asked softly, his brain not quite willing to accept what he felt.

A pressure came next to his arm, pushing against him like a full palm and running from shoulder to wrist.

“No,” he shook his head violently. “You’re imagining it. You tricked your brain with lies. He’s dead! The Well is the end! He’s DEAD!”

The air grew heavy and clamped down around his frame, moving from his front to around his back like a mass and settled along his spine. Despite how cold the room had grown, the mass of air was warm, hot almost.

And it was spreading up his back, moving under his arms to encircle his chest.

“No!” Ratchet’s voice was a broken whimper and he shivered in the embrace.

Finally, it stopped shifting and the heaviest pressure was felt along the side of his head. The mass held its form and Ratchet could feel it all up and down the length of him, hot, but not uncomfortable. Almost familiar. Resting against him…

The realization broke him, and Ratchet cried out, dropping his head to his hands as lubricant swelled in his optics.

Ironhide’s spirit clamped tighter around his vulnerable medic.

Even in death he was the protector and the medic’s healer.


	4. Trick-or-Treating

**Bayverse**

\---

_“Trick or what?”_

_“Trick or treating,” Lennox repeated himself. Standing up in the bed of Ironhide’s alt-mode, the soldier used a broom to sweep away the autumn detritus of leaves and twigs that had collected there. Subject to the season’s changing weather and unable to assume bi-pedal mode at the Lennox’s home, the big truck had to rely on his human family for upkeep. “You take Annabelle out for an hour or two, collect candy, and come home. It’s all part of the holiday.”_

_Ironhide gave a derisive grunt, puffs of smoke rolling from his smokestacks. “And why am I to take on this responsibility?”_

_“Because she asked for you specifically. I tried to talk her out of it, but I couldn’t take the look in those big baby blues any more. I caved.”_

_Once the last of the leaves had been swept away, Lennox threw the broom into the nearby grass, following it over the side of the truck’s bed. He walked around to Ironhide’s front and placed a gentle hand on the hood. When he spoke, it sounded almost as if he were begging._

_“Will you do it, Hide? I mean, do you really want to make little ‘Belle cry?”_

_Ironhide conjured up the image of the tiny blonde in tears, chubby cheeks flushed and glistening, a thin strand of snot hanging from her scrunched nose. It pained him to see her in such a state. And all because of his fault…_

_“How would I go about walking your neighborhood? My holoform does not have a wide range.”_

_Lennox broke into a grin and gave the hood a hearty slap. He knew he had won over the ‘bot._

_“I’m sure Ratchet can whip up something.”_

It was surreal, to be standing at Lennox’s height. Even more bizarre was he still stood as a bot, at least in hard light form. Ratchet had come through indeed, crafting an electronic extender of sorts to widen his holoform’s range. As long as Annabelle kept the device on her, Ironhide could remain by her side.

And Annabelle would have no problem carrying the device in one of the many pockets of her costume. A combat fairy- that’s what she had wanted to be this year. To find such a mix would have been impossible in the stores, so her mother had gotten to work, breaking out the sewing machine. A patchwork of scrap fabric and a pair of her husband’s old fatigues made up the camouflage patterned costume of a skirt and field jacket, complete with combat boots. The pink tiara and wings had to be purchased.

She fit in perfectly among the milieu of other costumed children. Some wore shoddily painted cardboard boxes, others flowing dresses that glowed spectacularly in the orange pumpkin light. But what surprised the brutish mech most were the masks and facial applications oozing fake blood and simulating physical trauma. He had seen so much carnage on the battlefield working alongside NEST that the very sight of smiling, laughing people dressed as the grievously injured made him ill.

But his young charge kept him focused on the positives of the holiday as she ran giddily from door to door, bag filling with sweets. Annabelle was quick- almost stressfully so. Ironhide found himself running after her and scooping her into his arms so as not to lose track of the giggling bundle of hyperactivity. It made him grateful he had not raised any sparklings; he was sure this kid would end him faster than any ‘con.

“Please stay by my side,” the soldier huffed, eventually setting the squirming child down on a nearby porch. “Soldiers must follow orders, correct?”

Annabelle looked up at him with wide eyes that shone in the candle light. Her wild smile melted into something more of solemn understanding. She threw up an arm in salute, like she had seen her daddy do on many occasions.

“Yes, sir!”

“That’s better. After this house, we will head home. You’ve acquired quite a lot of candy; your arm must be getting tired.”

Annabelle was quick to point an accusing finger.

“That’s your fault. You dumped that whole bowl in my bag!”

Ironhide shifted his gaze up and away, lip plates forming a mischievous grin.

“I didn’t see the ‘take one only’ sign until too late. Besides, who only takes one piece?”

“Don’t soldiers always follow orders?”

The mech opened his mouth to protest, but stopped himself. Annabelle had called him on his own teachings. She smirked in knowing.

As she turned to knock on the door, a commotion in the street redirected her attention. A large boy dressed as a Roman soldier stood over another, candy spilled everywhere. He was throwing insults at the smaller boy’s fairy costume.

Ironhide was too slow to catch Annabelle as she took off down the driveway.

Squaring her shoulders and raising her arms, hands curled into tiny fists, the youngest Lennox confronted the bully. She bared her baby teeth in a threatening manner.

“You leave him alone!”

“What’s this?” the bully guffawed. “A fairy protecting a fairy? The weak defending the weak?”

“I’m not weak. And I’m not just a fairy- I’m a fairy soldier! And this fairy soldier’s not afraid to kick your butt!”

Annabelle left no room for argument. With all her might, she brought the heel of her boot down on the boy’s exposed toes. Eliciting a squeal of pain, he collapsed backwards, candy bag and body dropping with a heavy thud. Gathering his composure, he looked about to retaliate, but again the camouflage-clad girl clomped her boot on the ground. Whining, the bully scrambled to his feet and bolted.

Ironhide had simply watched it all in amazement, and only approached when Annabelle had assisted the fallen boy and sent him on his way.

“That…that was awesome.” Ironhide gave the young child a proud smile. “You’d make a fine soldier.”

Upon their return home, Will looked up from his magazine to greet his daughter and had to do a double-take. Ironhide stood in the doorway as Annabelle tromped into the living room, head held triumphantly.

“You’ve raised your daughter well, Will,” Ironhide said simply before disengaging his holoavatar. Lennox was left to ponder why Annabelle now possessed two bags of candy.


End file.
